


Recoil

by BringtheKaos



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Gen, Hell Hath Fury, Hell comes for Crowley, Hurt/Comfort, Multi, Platonic Relationships, Post-Apocalypse, Protective Aziraphale, Retribution, badass witch
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-12
Updated: 2018-12-12
Packaged: 2019-09-16 20:54:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 15
Words: 18,067
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16961277
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BringtheKaos/pseuds/BringtheKaos
Summary: Hell has drawn back after the great war was interfered with by a traitorous demon and a slightly unrighteous angel, but they will snap back. And when they do, they're coming for Crowley.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Not a particularly shippy work. It's not that I don't, I very much do. But in my headcannon, the characters love each other platonically.

Crowley was on his third cigarette, and it wasn’t helping. He could count on one hand the amount of time he’d spent anxious in the last 6 thousand or so years, and the majority of them were within the last two months. There was that one time in Sicily.1 But ever since the averted apocalypse (the avertalypse if you will), Crowley couldn’t shake this feeling that there was an anvil tied to a balloon over his head, which was going to pop any minute, without warning. A big, Satan-shaped anvil.

Aziraphale was convinced that both sides were licking their wounds; too ashamed of both their respective failures to acknowledge the bumbling of their own great plans by a traitorous demon, a slightly unrighteous angel, and an antichrist with a gargantuan imagination. But Crowley thought otherwise. He saw it more as a recoil— like kicking dirt on a snake. At first it retreats, shakes itself free of dust and debris, then strikes with a fiery vengeance. He would know, after all.

He cleared his throat, twisting the cigarette into the hotel ash tray, the dying ember the only light illuminating the small room. He stood sharply, taking the two steps to the large window and gently tossing open the drapes. The bright lights of Trafalgar Square shined on the left, St. James Park on the right.  
The sheets rustled behind him, and Victoria groaned.2

“Anthony?” she whispered groggily.

“Go back to sleep,” he said in a deadpan, not entirely sure if he’d forced her to or not.

He turned to look at her, making sure to keep his uncovered eyes in the dark. He didn’t usually entice mortals to the sin of lust; it was too limited in scope. Even orgies only involved ten or so, and it just wasn’t enough for him. He preferred to shop in bulk; tempting hundreds, if not thousands at a time. Wrath was the easiest for that.

But recently Crowley had been craving more in-depth interactions. The kind that could singlehandedly damn a person. Not just drips in a bucket. He wasn’t sure if it was just his developing tastes, or if his paranoia was making him shove people in line before him.

And she had been good... very, _very_ good. She’d discovered his tongue at one point, and instead of expressing fear or doubt, she just put it to good use. She’d even made him forget himself a few times, which was quite hard to do. 

But it hadn’t been enough. It was decently distracting for twenty minutes at a time, but as soon as she fell asleep, he found himself spiraling back down the drain of his own thoughts. 

How? How was it possible that Hell was just going to let this go? Forgive and forget was heavenly, which was probably why Aziraphale was unbothered of late... but Hell... they just wouldn’t. They never had.

_Recoil._

Crowley hissed out the tension built up in his neck, spinning and donning his pants and shirt. He popped a cigarette into his lips, willing it to light as he placed his sunglasses with the other hand. The deep crimson cherry illuminated Victoria’s sleeping body, one exquisite breast haphazardly exposed by the sheets. 

“Well I do have to give Him credit for you,” he mumbled, leaning over her and taking her wedding band from the side table, where she’d put it before they’d begun. He exited quickly and noisily, unconcerned with waking her.

“You’re not permitted to smoke in here, love,” a hotel maid squeaked as he passed quickly, holding his sport coat draped over one arm.

“Good thing I’m leaving then,” he piped, sliding by her without slowing.

He spotted Mr. Victoria standing in the hotel lobby with a couple mates, laughing ignorantly at something.

“Eh, might as well top this cake with a bit of wrath,” he mumbled past his cigarette, approaching the obvious lawyer/politician.

“Here you go, chap,” he interrupted, slapping the wedding ring into the man’s palm. “All warmed up for you.”

As he exited into the crisp, foggy London air, he tossed his coat over his shoulders, completely unsure of where he was even headed. He’d kept going, going, going for months now, unable to sit still for longer than a few minutes. Relaxing was questionable, sleep impossible. He didn’t really need sleep, but as he’d been accustomed to it for thousands of years, its absence was beginning to take a toll. He felt lethargic, slow-to-react, and constantly sore. Probably had something to do with being physically tense 100% percent of the time.

He peeked at his Rolex, finding the diamond at the tip of the hour hand glinting just ahead of 9pm. When he looked up, the warm, yellow light of A.Z. Fell Booksellers was staring him in the befuddled face.

He sighed, knowing he had definitely not come intentionally, and yet somehow he had.

He shrugged, taking the old cobblestone steps in a single bound. He cringed as he passed the threshold, feeling the horseshoe over his head screaming in protest. Aziraphale was standing behind the counter with his completely unnecessary reading glasses on, and he peered over them with an air of apprehension.

He relaxed as he found that it wasn’t a customer, smiling slightly and beckoning Crowley inside.

“I have a customer,” Aziraphale warned, motioning.

Crowley paused then, finding a young woman seated at a small, circular table by the front bay window. She was sipping a steaming cup of something, her whole body intensely hunched over the book lying next to her drink.

“Thought you had swatters for those?” Crowley drawled, drawing a snorting giggle from the woman. 

“Oh, she’s one of the good ones,” Aziraphale replied with a cherubic smile. The woman closed her book and looked up at him as they spoke of her. “Just comes to enjoy some tea and read.”

“He’s right though, ‘s getting a bit late,” the woman said, rising from the table, grabbing her cup and book, and approaching the counter. She gently set them both in front of him with a... flirtatious yet bashful smile.3

“Thank you, Mr. Fell,” she continued quietly, pushing her long brunette hair behind an ear.

“My pleasure, my dear,” he responded warmly. “Which one did you decide on this time?” he asked, twisting the book around to read the title.

His face flattened, his eyes darting to Crowley as he, too, read the title.

_Rituale Romanum, First Edition Translation, with forward by Cardinal Jacques-Paul Martin, Prefect of the Papal Household During the Pontificate of John Paul II._ 4

Crowley raised his eyebrows, looking first at a somewhat cringing Aziraphale, then to the young lady.

“So just a bit of light reading, then?” he asked, unable to avoid turning on the charm. Aziraphale muttered “don’t” under his breath.

The woman barely smiled, eyeing him like... well like a snake in her path.

“Friend of yours, Mr. Fell?” she asked quickly.

“Uh, well... kind of...” he stuttered.

Crowley grinned wickedly, holding out a hand to her.

“Anthony Crowley, I’m his... demonologist,” he said sarcastically.

“Penelope,” she said softly, taking his hand begrudgingly, and Crowley thought... well no, he could be wrong... was he seeing things?... did she cringe when she touched him? 

She pulled her hand back, shoving it into her coat and angling herself away from him and back toward Aziraphale.

“Next time, then?” she asked, suddenly a bit on edge. 

“Of course, my dear, anytime,” he said, taking the book and tea cup.

She nodded jerkily, spinning and hurrying from the shop as if chased by hounds.

“That was weird,” Crowley said, watching the space she had vacated.

“Poor girl is afflicted with a bit of clairvoyance. She doesn’t get much, but she gets some emotions from things she touches. I think it’s why she enjoys the old books so much; much more to consume than just words,” Aziraphale said, waving his hand at the front door, miracling the ‘open’ sign off, and turning the deadbolt. Crowley followed him, watching as he slid the book back into its spot on one of the rear shelves, then approached the sink in the back room and placed the tea cup down inside it gently.

“Tea?” he asked without turning, placing the kettle back on his small, single-burner stovetop.

“Sure,” Crowley sighed, removing his coat, flopping it over the back of the closest chair, and collapsing into it. He tore his sunglasses from his eyes, tossing them none-too-gently on the adjacent table.

Aziraphale turned upon hearing the commotion, tilting his head like a curious puppy.

“Oh, my dear... you look like hell,” he said, hurrying over and sitting in the opposite chair.

Crowley did not respond; instead dropping forward, crossing his arms on the table, and burying his head in them.

“I can’t shake it, Aziraphale,” he mumbled into his arms. “This feeling that they’re not gunna let this go.”

“Well they would have acted by now, don’t you think?” Aziraphale reasoned.

Crowley nodded ‘no’ into his arms. “Nah, it’s just the recoil. Just recoil.”

“Beg pardon?” Aziraphale asked.

Crowley straightened, letting his back hit the chair before slumping in exhaustion.

“Recoil. Like a spring, like a snake. They’ve just drawn back after being hit. But... they’ll rear their heads again. Always do. And when they...” His voice caught, and he covered his face in a hand, rubbing his sore temples.

“Relax, my dear, I truly believe they would have...”

 _“I can’t relax, angel!”_ Crowley hissed, dropping his hand. He could tell the sight of his bloodshot eyes and the dark circles beneath them gave Aziraphale a start, now that he was really looking at them.

“I haven’t slept since it happened, haven’t eaten, I’m constantly looking over my shoulder... I’m too paranoid to turn on the car radio, because I think they’ll be there, waiting to spit venom at me, and I’ve got this... this...”

He paused, holding up both hands, which were shaking like fall leaves. “This _bloody_ tremor that won’t... it won’t _stop_ , angel... _it won’t stop.”_

“Alright, alright,” Aziraphale conceded. “Deep breath. Let me get you your tea.”

“Nothing stronger?” Crowley asked as the angel poured two cups, dropping one sugar and a bit of cream in Crowley’s.

“Oh, I might have a bit of communal wine somewhere,” he bumbled, opening and closing cupboards and cabinets. “Sorry, running a little low on stock at the moment, that’s what the Ritz is for...”

“Can’t trust myself in public right now. Not for extended periods of time, anyway,” Crowley replied dryly as Aziraphale gave a little “ah!” as he pulled out a very aged bottle of unmarked red wine. He set it on the table, then turned and grabbed the tea.

“Have they given you any reason to suspect...” Aziraphale trailed off, sitting and sipping at his tea while Crowley popped the cork from the wine and drank heartily. He nodded no, clicking his teeth and wiping his lips.

“I suppose it is all in my mind, but... where there’s smoke, there’s fire.”

“But you say there hasn’t been any smoke...?” Aziraphale asked again.

Crowley groaned, slamming the bottle onto the table.

“Call me crazy, then,” he said, standing violently, a hip hitting the table, and beginning to pace. “Yours are all about forgiveness. Mine are about the fire, and the brimstone, and _seven agonizing circles._ Can you blame me for being a bit off?”

The bottle fell over on the table with a bang, and Crowley physically jumped, ducking his head as if avoiding something. Aziraphale held up his hands in surrender, righting the bottle and standing. He walked around to approach Crowley, who felt awfully idiotic, frightened by a falling bottle.

“Alright, sit down,” he said, motioning. 

Crowley grumbled “fuck” under his breath as he plopped hard into the chair, to which Aziraphale replied “language, please.”

Crowley caught the movement as Aziraphale stood behind him, reaching for his shoulders.

“What are you doing?” he yelped, leaning away from him.

“Boy, you really are, aren’t you?” Aziraphale said gently, motioning for him to lean back. “I’m going to try and help you... though I’m not sure it’ll work. Tell me if I hurt you. Never done this on a demon before.”

“Popping your cherry, am I?” he asked with a sly grin as he leaned back into the chair.

Aziraphale thunked him atop the head like a mother catching her toddler smuggling sweets into his coat.

As the angel’s hands rested on his shoulders, he felt an immediate flooding of... _something_ throughout his entire body. The ache in his head dissipated instantly, the tremors stopped entirely, and every sore muscle in his body let go of the months of tension and tightness. It was actually painful as he relaxed; his body unaccustomed to _not_ being rigid.

He let out a small whine, closing his eyes against it and taking a deep, shaky breath.

Aziraphale immediately removed his hands upon hearing Crowley whimper, stepping around in front of him.

“Better?” he asked, and Crowley could tell he’d sat by the creak from his chair. He opened his eyes, taking another long, stronger breath, and finding Aziraphale staring worriedly at him.

“Yes,” he said, swallowing hard. “Th... thank you,” he said, almost euphoric in his newfound peace.

Aziraphale nodded, smiling genuinely. “Now,” he said, standing again. “Let’s hear no more of this.”

He walked over to a gramophone, setting a record on it, and placing the needle. A bit of Beethoven scratched into the silence.

“Don’t believe in CD players?” Crowley asked with a smile.

“This works just fine,” Aziraphale replied, leaning past Crowley and pulling a book from one of his shelves. He sat again, splaying it open and taking his tea. “And it doesn’t have the awful habit of turning anything into Queen.”

Crowley laughed, almost having to remember how for a moment.

“Touché,” he said, his eyes getting heavy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Footnotes:  
> 1) We don’t talk about that.  
> 2) He had yet to meet someone named Victoria (or any variation thereof—Vicky, Tori... Victor) that didn’t have a twisted dark side begging to be exposed. This one had been no different, sauntering about the Covent Garden Hotel’s event ballroom on the arm of her husband, flashing that exposed leg from her red gown like some kind of ripe, adulterous Jessica Rabbit.  
> 3) This might be the first time a female has ever smiled that way at Aziraphale. Crowley marks it in his mental ledger.  
> 4) Widely regarded as the fundamental text on demonic possession and exorcisms.


	2. Chapter 2

Aziraphale paused his reading to peer over at Crowley.

He was still sitting up in his chair, but he’d closed his eyes, his breathing rhythmic and even. The angel grinned to himself, glad to have helped him rest. If that made him a bad angel, then so be it. But the way he saw it, taking away some suffering, no matter from whom, was a good deed.

He looked back down at his book, picking up his tea and drinking it just to the left of the pages, to avoid potential drops. _Moonlight Sonata_ began playing over the record player, and the old grandfather clock in the front began its 11 chimes. Aziraphale looked up at his counterpart, ensuring the sound wasn’t waking him; he didn’t even stir.

The angel stood as quietly as he could, slipping the drooping bottle of wine from Crowley’s slackened fingers, and turning to set it in the sink. 

The record player skipped, making a scratching sound. Then, as Aziraphale’s heart collided with his heels, a deep rumbling voice began speaking through it.

At first Aziraphale didn’t understand it, but he quickly found that it was speaking backwards. He adjusted, analyzing the words and flipping them round. He still only caught a few,

**“Traitor... obey... suffer... years... Crowley!”**

Aziraphale spun to find Crowley’s eyes wide open, his hands gripping the table so hard it creaked. He seemed... stuck. Unable to move, unable to breathe.

Aziraphale spun back to face the record player.

“With whom do I have the _distinct displeasure_ of speaking?” he asked furiously.

**“Does the name mattttter?”**

“Oh yes, it does,” Aziraphale replied heatedly. “I want to ensure my people are aware of your meddlings in the affairs of an agent of heaven.”

**“But I’m not. I’m meddling in the affairsssss of Hell.”**

“In my home,” Aziraphale snapped. “It doesn’t matter that he’s here, _this is my home. Get out.”_

The voice laughed, which prompted a terrified whimper from Crowley.  
 **“I’m not in your property. I’m in miiiiiine.”**

Crowley gasped, tears beginning to fall down his petrified face.

“I swear, by all that is Holy, begone from this place, or you’ll find out why the wrath of an angel is _much worse_ than that of Hell.”

There was a scratching silence for a long time. Aziraphale chanced a glance back at Crowley, who was still frozen in place, his eyes clenched tightly shut, his whole body trembling.

**“We’ll ssssee.”**

The needle jumped off the record, leaving nothing but deafening silence. Aziraphale whipped to face Crowley, but it was too late.

He rocketed to his feet, his wings bursting into existence as he doubled over, wrapping himself in his arms and releasing an anguished scream that broke Aziraphale’s heart.

Crowley stumbled back, hitting the wall— his wings flattening behind him. His eyes glowed red for a moment, and with a _crash_ that startled even Aziraphale, every cupboard, cabinet, and drawer flew open. 

Crowley rushed to them, his hands shuffling through them and tossing knickknacks everywhere.

“Crowley, what are you...” Aziraphale began as the demon switched to the cabinets over the sink, knocking dishes and china out to shatter on the countertop.

“Holy Water, you must have some,” Crowley hissed, his hands flying about at almost unnatural speed.

“Of course I do, but he’s already gone, what good could it d...”

_“Not for him, for me,”_ Crowley growled, finally pausing as he realized he’d checked everywhere. 

“Oh, Crowley...” Aziraphale felt a pain in his heart as he realized what Crowley was suggesting. Crowley backed to the nearest wall, slamming into it and burying his face in his hands. “Rather it be you, rather it be you... _mercy..._ ”

He let out another wordless cry, collapsing to the floor with a shudder, one of his wings bent awkwardly beneath him. He rocked back and forth, gasping for air as if he were drowning.

Aziraphale hurried to him, dropping to his knees and resting a hand on his shoulder.

“Don’t!” Crowley cried, shying away from him. “ _Too much, too much..._ ”

“I’m so sorry,” Aziraphale begged.

_“I knew, I knew it...”_ Crowley choked, continuing his rocking. His free wing trembled with the rest of him, his black feathers creating a rustling sound like aspens in the fall. He inhaled sharply, burying his face in a terribly shaking hand.

“ _God help me._ ”

Ice ran through Aziraphale’s veins. Never, not in 6 thousand years, had he ever heard Crowley say those words.

“Crowley, please try not to get hysterical,” he begged. 

The demon’s head whipped up angrily to look at him, tears flowing down his cheeks.

“Hysterical? _Hysterical?!_ ” he shrieked. _“Az, he just skinned me alive with a dull knife..._ at least... I think he did... _was I here? Did I go somewhere? Have I been here... this whole time? How long has it been?!”_

Aziraphale sighed in pity, reaching out again.

“No, don’t!” Crowley yelped like a wounded dog, slapping Aziraphale’s hands away and shying away from him again. This time, though, the angel didn’t give up. 

He launched forward, grasping both of Crowley’s upper arms hard, despite his desperate protestations.

He poured a debilitating amount of grace into his friend, surprised at how long it actually took for him to succumb. His breaths slowed, his eyes getting heavy as if he’d been drugged. He kept muttering, “no, no, no,” until his lips failed him. He slumped back, collapsing to the hardwood.

“There you go,” Aziraphale whispered, removing his hands and placing one palm on Crowley’s cold forehead. “Just sleep. I’ll... I’ll think of something.”

He rose, afraid to move him for fear of waking him again. After a bit of frustrated searching, he found an old blanket in a closet, tossing it gently over him.

He stepped away, rubbing his forehead. Where to even start? He supposed he could ask heaven for asylum for him, after all, he had helped thwart the advance of Hell, even permanently destroying one of his own.

And yet... Aziraphale himself hadn’t even contacted them since... the great blunder. They seemed content to ignore the whole snafu, at least where Aziraphale was concerned. At the very least, they didn’t fault him for protecting the world of humans. But Crowley... he wasn’t going to be so lucky. And Aziraphale couldn’t stand idly by.

He grumbled to himself, collecting the candles and hurrying to the front room, closing the door behind him to avoid disturbing Crowley. He closed all the blinds in the front windows with a hurried swish of his hand, before turning to toss the carpet up and place the candles around the old circle.

“Here goes nothing,” he muttered, stepping into the circle.

The light illuminated his musty little shop immediately, but there was silence. It went on for so long, Aziraphale began to wonder if he’d done something wrong in his hurry, perhaps misplaced a candle or...

“Well you’ve got some nerve, Aziraphale,” the Metatron said flatly.

Aziraphale nodded, sighing deeply. “Yes, I know. And I wouldn’t be talking to you if it wasn’t terribly important...”

“We know.”

“Yes, of course. Wait, you know what?” he asked, wondering if they’d been watching everything. They didn’t make a habit of it; leaving the humans unsupervised was like leaving a toddler alone in a cutlery shop.

The Metatron did not respond.

“Right. Well. I know that I am in no place, but I must ask a favor...”

“We do not grant favors.”

“Yes, I know. Manner of speaking. I would like to... well... you see... a friend of mine...”

“The demon.”

“...yes,” Aziraphale said with a wince.

“You have the audacity to call him ‘friend’?”

“Well, I... he’s been... look, the point is... well I suppose I shall just come out with it. Could you find it in you to grant him asylum?”

The Metatron was indignantly silent. Aziraphale could practically hear the disbelief.

“You wish us... to give asylum... to a demon.”

Aziraphale thought long and hard about his words. 

“He betrayed them. He completely thwarted their greater plans toward the war...”

“You mean like you did. To us.”

Aziraphale pursed his lips. “No. Not like I did. Much, much worse. He destroyed one of his own. He actively _helped_ our cause.”

“So... he did more for us... than you did... is what you’re saying?”

“Look!” Aziraphale began, but realized his tone. He cleared his throat, rubbing his temple and calming himself. “With respect, might we discuss my transgressions at a later time? Will you or will you not grant what I ask?”

The Metatron was silent, and Aziraphale could feel his heartbeat slamming in his ears.

“No, Aziraphale. We are not in a habit of helping our enemy. If he is afraid, it’s as it should be. If he is in pain, it’s as it should be. If he perishes...”

“Let me guess...” Aziraphale mumbled, his heart colliding with his heels for the second time today. 

“Such is the price he pays for choosing Hell over Heaven.”

Aziraphale deflated, having exhausted his one and only option.

“Then...” he began, wringing his hands together. “In that case, I... I request that you permit me to protect him.”

“It would seem we’ve not the power to stop you.”

“Of course you have,” Aziraphale replied indignantly. “I am still your loyal servant, despite recent... events. And if you tell me no, then I will... obey.”1

He paused, wringing his fingers tighter.

“But I... I pity him. I wish to stop the advance of Hell, to stop the advance of their wicked suffering. And I wish to do it in all earthbound creatures. The humans, the animals, and this one particular demon. Please. Allow me to do this.”

The Metatron was silent for a painfully long time. So long that Aziraphale heard the grandfather clock chime midnight.

“Granted.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) This had about a 21% chance of being true.


	3. Chapter 3

Aziraphale sat hunched over the table in his back room, a steaming cup of coffee sitting next to his propped-up elbow. He couldn’t recall the last time he’d drank coffee, but... it was definitely a coffee kind of morning.

His mind reeled as he watched Crowley, still sleeping in a heap on the floor, the early morning light that shone through the opposite window revealing just how pale and disheveled he truly was. His wings were still showing, wrapping about him like a protective cocoon.

The Metatron’s words swirled around in Aziraphale’s head like the swirling of the coffee before him.

_“Any battles you fight on his behalf will be fought on earth. Any wounds you take on his behalf will not be healed by our grace. No weapons will be provided by us. Your actions are hereby deemed your own, insofar as the demon is concerned, and are unsanctioned by Heaven. And if you are destroyed on his behalf... well... we will discuss with you further when you return to us.”_

Aziraphale groaned, rubbing his eyes and feeling a twinge of fear for the first time since the almostalypse. 

_What have I done? I couldn’t just let them take him, but... what have I just doomed us to? Have I started my own little war?!_

Crowley stirred, then bolted upright, his eyes darting about like a spooked horse. Before Aziraphale could speak, he threw the blanket off, stood abruptly, took two large steps, and swiped the gramophone from the counter viciously, sending it flying across the small room to shatter to bits against the opposite wall.

Aziraphale raised an eyebrow as Crowley turned his back on him, bracing against the countertop as his wings disappeared.

“That was uncalled for,” Aziraphale tried in jest, but Crowley was clearly in no mood. Aziraphale could almost hear him grinding his teeth.

“Don’t ever do that again,” Crowley growled, his voice hoarse.

“What? Play Beethoven?” Aziraphale asked, standing. He placed a hand on Crowley’s shoulder, which made him jump, sidestepping away from his fingers.

“Knock me out. If he’d come back, and I was... and I couldn’t...”

He covered his mouth with a hand, turning away from Aziraphale again.

“You were mad, Crowley, you were more likely to hurt yourse..."

“Where is it? The holy water? I wasn’t kidding,” he said into his palm, a shudder coursing him.

Aziraphale sighed. “Please sit down. We need to talk.”

Crowley nodded ‘no’ violently, still refusing to face the angel. “Don’t distract me. I’ve made my decision.”

“Crowley, will you just—“

“—‘s not even a sin—“

“—you need to take a breath and thi—“

“—only thing I need is this to end—“

“I will not.”

“—just end it Aziraph—“

“I will _not!”_

_“Please, angel, I’m asking you. Kill me.”_

_“I will not!!”_ Aziraphale cried, emotion overwhelming him and, before he knew what he was doing, he had tossed the table across the room, the coffee spilling over the hardwood.

Crowley finally faced him, silence befallen him at last. Aziraphale gathered himself, clearing his throat, straightening, and righting his lapel. 

“I’m not going to kill my oldest and dearest friend,” he finished forcefully.

Crowley took a deep breath, closing his eyes in a very obvious show of defeat. He stalked forward then, pulling on one of the chairs, spinning it, and sitting backwards in it, his arms propped up on the back. He did not speak, but instead waited, staring up at Aziraphale with a patient but slightly overwhelmed expression.

Aziraphale nodded, sitting in the other chair, peeking confoundedly at the downed table before speaking.

“I’ve spoken to my people,” Aziraphale began slowly.

Crowley’s jaw tightened, but he still did not speak.

“They... denied my request for sanctuary...”

“You actually thought they would—“

“Please let me finish,” Aziraphale interrupted gently, and Crowley nodded, biting his lip in frustration, but motioning for him to continue.

“ _But..._ ” he continued, knowing Crowley was not going to like what he had done.

“They’ve granted me permission to... well, to... to act as I see fit, in order to...”

He paused, watching as Crowley’s brows rose in questioning.

“To... protect... you,” he finished worriedly.

All expression left Crowley’s face, and his eyes began to widen.

“You... _what?!”_ Crowley gasped, his eyes morphing from shock to anger. “Aziraphale, do you realize what you’ve done?! You’ve effectively put the target meant for me squarely on your back. Why would you...”

Aziraphale raised his voice, his emotion making it crack. “Because standing in the line of fire for you is better than watching without acting. Or worse... being the one firing.”

Crowley slumped, burying his face in his hands. “Aziraphale, you shouldn’t have...”

The angel stood, smiling solemnly and gently resting a hand on his shoulder. For the first time, Crowley did not flinch away.

“That’s what friends are for. Now, come have some tea, perhaps read a book. I need to think, and that’s the only way I can.”


	4. Chapter 4

Crowley sat like a gargoyle at the table in the front of Aziraphale’s shop, his tremors all but returned. Aziraphale had offered to take them away, but Crowley was too afraid of losing his edge. Being uptight did have its advantages; you were much quicker to react to threats. So, in his parental-esque worry, Aziraphale had made him some tea and brought him a book.1

He sat, staring out at the snowflakes now fluttering across London through his dark sunglasses. Winter was a demon’s holiday. The vegetation dies, the humans become ill, and the weather seems to breed sin. Normally Crowley loved winter. Normally.

“So, what? You’re going to keep me like a bird in a cage?” he practically whispered, not turning to face the angel.

“Don’t be dramatic, I just... I just need to think about how I’m going to do this, and I can’t concentrate if I send you away, knowing...”

Crowley blinked slowly, inhaling as he raised a hand to his temple, rubbing it.

“Knowing that my flesh will be boiled and fed to me the moment I leave your side?” he said in a deadpan.

Aziraphale did not respond, but Crowley heard the clink as the angel anxiously sipped his tea.

“It seems hopeless because it is, angel,” Crowley grumbled, turning his head to watch a particularly beautiful woman stomp down the cold concrete streets in her elegant Jimmy Choos, unbothered by the snow. “You know how this ends.”

“Please don’t start that again,” Aziraphale begged. “Drink your tea.”

“‘S cold,” Crowley barked.

“Well whose fault is that?”

Crowley held up his horribly trembling hand. “I’ll spill, angel.”

“I offered to fix that.”

“I don’t need your novocaine or your pity,” Crowley snapped, rubbing his temple harder and already regretting his words. 

Aziraphale inhaled to respond, but Crowley interrupted.

“I’m sorry. Wallowing in self-pity seems to be my go-to response. I’m sorry,” he said again. 

The angel stood, but before he could approach, the shop’s door swung open.

Crowley didn’t have to turn to know who it was. Aziraphale’s relaxed expression tipped him off, but it was the girl’s aura that really clued him in; he’d felt it the night before. She had an air of relaxation about her, a kind of... numbing agent that had been rather pleasant to be around. It was probably a byproduct of her clairvoyant abilities. She numbed others while taking in all the emotions herself. Must have been terribly lonely.2

“Good morning, Penny,” Aziraphale said in his most pleasant businessman voice. “Back so soon?”

“Classes cancelled. Snow’s not so bad, I just think the professor’s a bit peaky about it. Mind if I study here?”

“Of course, sweetheart,” Aziraphale said, his eyes dashing to Crowley.

He shrugged in a horribly noncommittal manner, hoping it said ‘I’ll behave.’3

“Oh, hello,” Penelope said as she turned to the table, setting a backpack on the floor and a book on the table. 

_A Study Of Women and Theology: The Hushed Voices Of History._

Crowley read the title, but couldn’t muster the grin. He sighed, looking back out the window at the growing snowflakes.

“No pithy comments today?” Penelope asked, flipping the book open to a Lord of the Rings themed bookmark as she sat across from him.

Crowley nodded ‘no,’ removing his hand from his chin and letting it slap unceremoniously onto the tabletop.

“Oh, he’s... having a bad day,” Aziraphale chimed in, to which Crowley snorted. “Tea, love?” the angel asked of the girl.

“Yes, please,” she said, pretending to shuffle about her belongings, but Crowley could see her peering up at him, her eyes wandering down to his trembling hand as Aziraphale walked into the back room to put the kettle on.

Crowley noticed her gaze, pulling his hand back like it had been sitting on a burner.

Shockingly, she laid her hand on the table, palm up, beckoning his. He stared at her as a deer on a country road stares at a flaming Bentley.

“I can—”

“I know what you can do, you really don’t want to, trust me,” he snapped, eyeing her intense brown eyes.

“That’s my call, I think,” she replied, curling her fingers a few times to beckon him again.

He inhaled, swallowed hard, and exhaled as he raised his hand, placing it a bit too harshly into her palm.

She tensed, her brows angling hard over her eyes as she closed them, her hand tightening against Crowley’s. 

“ _My God_ ,” she whispered, twitching as Aziraphale re-entered the room.

“Oh no, my dear,” Aziraphale gasped hurriedly, rushing forward. “Don’t...”

“Shhh,” she cooed, closing her eyes tighter. Crowley watched her intently, wondering how much of it she was getting.

“I’ve never felt so much fear, so much agony,” she whispered.

“You and me both, love,” Crowley mumbled.

“Both of you, stop talking,” she snapped, her hand tightening on his a second time.

Aziraphale smiled at her voraciousness, approaching quietly and kneeling next to the table. 

“How... how are you even functioning right now?!” she asked, her voice shaking and a tear falling down her face. She sniffed, hurriedly wiping the tear away with her free hand.

Crowley didn’t answer, mostly because he had no answer.

“It’s so odd. It splits down the middle, the fear. Most of it isn’t _for_ you... it’s wandering somewhere else, _someone else_.”

Crowley cleared his throat nervously, suddenly yanking his hand from the girl’s.

She jumped as he did, her head snapping up to look at him with terror and pity clearly etched into her features.

“I...” she began, pursing her lips as she paused. “I’m sorry.”

Crowley nodded, but still didn’t respond. He refused to look sideways at Aziraphale, very aware that he had easily figured who Crowley’s fear was aimed at. 

“Both alright?” Aziraphale asked comfortingly, laying a hand on both Penny’s and Crowley’s wrists.

Both of them nodded, both of them likely lying.

Aziraphale stood, hurrying to the counter and grabbing Penny’s tea. Crowley defensively looked back out the window, very aware of her gaze as Aziraphale approached again.

“Here you are. Just the way you like it,” he said.

“Thank you,” Penny replied warmly, her eyes still burning into Crowley as she sipped it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) He hadn’t touched either of them in the hour he’d been sitting there.  
> 2) Crowley knew the feeling well.  
> 3) It definitely said ‘I’m in no mood to behave, but I’ll give it the good demon try.’


	5. Chapter 5

The atmosphere inside the bookshop was calm, warm, and safe.

For all but one.

Crowley felt like he was losing his mind. Obviously, they’d had to put their conversation on hold when the human walked in, and Aziraphale seemed content enough, especially after her little... palm reading. The girl had finally stopped staring at him, quietly reading her book against a backdrop of snow.

But inside his jittery vessel, Crowley felt like a pinball; pinched, slapped, and electrocuted to within an inch of his sanity. He couldn’t sit here like this, waiting for the anvil to fall. Waiting for _them_ to come to _him._

He couldn’t stand it anymore. The waiting, the silence, the indifference.

He huffed furiously, standing violently, yanking his coat from the chair, and turning for the door.

Aziraphale rocketed to his feet. “Where are you going?!” he asked worriedly.

“Having a fag, why, you writing a book?!” Crowley hissed, slamming through the door and fumbling in his coat pocket for his L&B Silvers. He yanked his old Zippo from the other pocket, jumping slightly as the door opened again behind him.

He turned on the stoop where he had stopped, rolling his eyes as he found Penelope following him in her maroon coat and scarf.

He sighed, turning back and popping open the lighter as he slid the cigarette into his pinched lips.

He flicked the flint as she approached, stopping to his right and simply standing there.

“Bloody motherfuckin Hell,” Crowley spat as his hand shook too much to light the cigarette.

Penelope stepped in front of him, somewhat... sensually pulling the lighter from his left hand, the box of cigarettes from his right. She pulled one from the box, setting it delicately in her lips, locking eyes with him through his glasses as she lit the flame, leaning in dangerously close, and placing both cigarettes in the steady flame. She sucked on it to pull the flames in, just as he did, never looking away.

She pulled away, setting the lighter back in his palm and stepping back to stand beside him, staring at the crackling snow. 

“Thought you were a good girl,” he said, blowing smoke into the snow as he slid the Zippo back into his coat pocket.

“And what on earth gave you that impression?” she asked.

Crowley shrugged. “The interest in religious books, the emotional intelligence, and the fact that you didn’t particularly like me,” he said, pausing to take another drag. “The good ones don’t like me.”

She smiled around her cigarette. “Well, you’re right about one thing; I definitely didn’t like you.”

Emphasis on didn’t.

“I’m taking theology as a minor, mostly to study the effects of religion on the masses; how it sways people, how it sways their actions.”

“So you’re not a believer, then?” Crowley asked, turning away from her as he asked.

“I wouldn’t say I’m not, but...”

“Wouldn’t say that you are either?” he asked with a smirk.

She giggled, nodding in his periphery.

“What are you so afraid of?” she asked gingerly.

He tensed, his lips pinching down on his cigarette.

“Can’t tell you that, love,” he said hurriedly. 

Penelope nodded, not at all surprised that he refused to specify.

“How much did you get from me?” he asked quietly. “I know you weren’t showing everything, to spare my delicate flower of a friend.”

“A crippling amount,” she said, blowing out smoke anxiously. “I’m very sorry you’re feeling that way.”

He nodded, removing the cigarette from his lips and holding it in his fingers. In the distance, Big Ben began to strike noon.

“So you come to a bookshop to read, never to buy. Why not a library?” Crowley asked.

“Well I originally came in to buy,” she said. “But I felt his sorrow when parting with one of them, and I put two and two together rather quickly. I think he’s thrilled that I never buy anything.”

“You’ve no idea how right you are,” Crowley said with a smile, tossing his butt into the snow and stomping on it with his snakeskin shoe.

He suddenly felt like an icicle had fallen straight down the back of his shirt, following the curve of his spine as the clock rang out a final time. A thirteenth time.

“Did... did that just chime thirteen times?” Penelope asked, facing in the direction of Big Ben.

Crowley shivered, but not from the cold.

“Yep. Twelve for the time, one for me,” he whispered under his breath.


	6. Chapter 6

Crowley paced before the fire in the back room of Aziraphale’s shop. The girl had long since gone, and Crowley hadn’t told the angel about the clock. They both already knew his time was up.

“I’ve had an epiphany,” Aziraphale said, sweeping bits of broken china into a trash bag. The back room looked like... well, like a demon had been through it. The gramophone was lying in pieces against the wall, every cupboard, drawer, and cabinet was still open, the table was on the floor, and there was a large coffee stain on the hardwood. And in the corner, where Crowley had been, there were a few black feathers.

Crowley continued his pacing, giving the angel nothing but an unenthusiastic “hm” to let him know he’d heard.

“That symbol that I use... to communicate with... upstairs,” he began, tying the string on the trash bag and tossing it by the back door. It crashed a bit, and Crowley jumped.

“Sorry,” Aziraphale grimaced. He sauntered to the table, setting it upright in the most delicate way imaginable. “That symbol,” he continued, grabbing a rag and wiping the table of spilled coffee.1

“It also works as a sort of... well, a barrier, or a trap. For evil spirits. Nothing gets in or out unless I let it. I know it’s not a permanent solution, but... if any of them come back, I can keep you in that. To protect you. None of them can get into it.”

Crowley stopped to the left of the fire, sighing. 

“Lovely,” he said in a monotone. “So instead of keeping me in this tiny shop to lose my mind, you’ll shove me in a three-foot cylindrical death-trap, where I can then abandon what’s left of my sanity.”

Aziraphale deflated, rolling his eyes a bit. “Well, _as I said_ ,” Aziraphale began, a hint of attitude tinting his tone. “It’s not a permanent solution. But in a pinch, it could be a life-saver.”

“You realize that they’ll just stand there, on the other side of the circle, until the end of time if they have to, waiting for me to break,” Crowley asked irritably.

“Well I don’t see you coming up with any bright ideas,” Aziraphale huffed.

“I already told you what _I_ want to do,” Crowley hissed.

Aziraphale groaned, brushing off the suggestion with the same tepid disinterest as he had every time Crowley brought it up. He knelt next to the remains of his gramophone with another trash bag, piling pieces into it.

“You know... I’m not daft,” Aziraphale said quietly, watching his work and not his friend. “I know what Penny meant. About... your fear. Splitting. Aimed at someone else.”

Crowley cringed. “Don’t get sentimental. I’d have to be an absolute tosser not to be worried about what you’ve done. The second they realize...”

“You’re not worried about _what I’ve done,_ you’re worried about _me_ ,” Aziraphale said with a wide, genuine smile. “And I’d say it’s rather touching.”

Crowley feigned a gag. “Don’t insult me.”

He did not continue on, though, as it was quite clear they were both aware of the impasse they’d reached. 

The fire popped, then again, then a third time. Crowley paused, his breath hitting a brick wall as he slowly turned to face it. For a moment, it just looked like any old flame. 

Then the eyes opened up.

_“Fuck,”_ Crowley growled, whipping around and grabbing the shoulder of Aziraphale’s shirt.

“What on earth are you... _oh!”_ Aziraphale yelped as he obviously laid eyes on the ashen figure crawling by its long, pointed fingers from the hearth.

Crowley hurried into the front room, viciously tossing up the carpet to reveal the symbol. Immediately, he could feel it taking a toll on him. Just being in its general vicinity was making him shiver, much like holy water.

“Step inside,” Aziraphale commanded hurriedly, shoving him forward.

Crowley yelped as he stumbled into it, clutching his chest. It felt as though someone were resting a dump truck on it.

“Oh, I definitely can’t stay like this for long,” Crowley whimpered.

**“Good. You won’t have to.”**

Both Crowley and Aziraphale turned, finding Hastur standing in the completely singed doorway. 

**“I’m just tickled to death that the Dark Council chose me. I owe you for Ligur. And I’m going to make sure it takes a very, vvvvvvery long time for you to die.”**

Crowley swallowed hard, trying to put on his best ‘I’m-not-scared-of-you’ face.2

**“And as for you. Word around is you’ve foolishly decided to help this worthless sack of yet-to-be-ground-up meat.”**

Aziraphale straightened, stupidly stepping forward and placing himself between Hastur and Crowley.

“I have,” he admitted. “And it’s a sad state of affairs for you...?”

**“Hastur. One half of a partnership that was desssstroyed by yours truly.”** He jutted a finger at Crowley. **“Vengeance is forthcoming.”**

With that, he practically snorted in Aziraphale’s face, and began pacing around the circle, looking down at it and back up to Crowley. He held out a hand, running a jagged fingernail against the barrier and smiling wickedly as his flesh reacted like the opposite end of a magnet.

**“A sneaky trick, angel. But you can’t keep him in there forever. It’s just as likely to kill him as I am.”**

This, Crowley was becoming more aware of by the second. He blinked several times, his sight becoming unfocused. His ears were starting to ring, his skin crawling uncomfortably as if with bugs.

**“Release him. And I’ll make it quick.”**

Aziraphale didn’t respond; instead he confidently sat at the front table, blinking innocently at the intruding demon. His nonchalance made his intentions to do no such thing _very_ clear.

Hastur laughed, the sound identical to the one that had echoed through the gramophone the night before. He looked back at Crowley, who was beginning to actually sweat under the effects of the trap.

A look of dawning genius fell over Hastur, and he smiled at Crowley.

**“Let’s see if I can’t make him come out on his own, then.”**

With blinding speed, Hastur spun around, viciously attacking Aziraphale. The angel’s wings ruptured into the open air of the vaulted bookshop, beating hard as he fought with the demon.

Crowley clenched his fists hard. “Aziraphale, release me,” he begged, watching as the angel’s blood was drawn in fives, Hastur’s long, unnatural fingers slicing right through his flesh. To his own credit, though, Aziraphale had managed to brandish a cross from somewhere, burning it into the skin of Hastur’s chest.

“Nope,” Aziraphale replied somewhat flippantly, spinning and using one of his powerful wings to easily toss Hastur down onto his back on the floor, just in front of Crowley. He hovered to the floor, landing lithely and brandishing a Rosary in one hand, looking very much like Indiana Jones ready to wield his whip.3

Hastur laughed from where he lay, embedded his hand in the floor, and used it as leverage to slide himself across the hardwood and grasp Aziraphale’s ankle. With a force that sent the breath that he didn’t even need from the angel’s lungs, Hastur whipped his feet from under him.

With blinding speed, he crawled up the angel’s face-down body, placing his spider-leg hands over Aziraphale’s left wing.

“No!” Crowley cried, but it had already happened.

The scream that filled the book store barely overshadowed the sickening _crack_ of the angel’s wing snapping like dry timber. Crowley felt a pit in his stomach as Aziraphale tried to crawl away from Hastur, who laughed, digging his pointed fingers into the angel’s back to keep him there.

Crowley cried out in fury, using every bit of power in him to break free of the trap. It was agonizing— like a thousand hot knives met him at the border and pushed him back. He used his own wings to finish the job, rocketing free and slamming into a wall of books, which rained over him.

He could instantly feel the effect of breaking free—every muscle seemed torn, every bone felt broken. He knew he’d have to act fast.

“King James!” Aziraphale cried, which caused Hastur to turn, seeing that Crowley had broken free.

In the selfsame moment that Hastur rocketed toward him, Crowley used his wings to propel himself to the back of the shop, where Aziraphale’s favorite King James Bible lay nestled on the third shelf from the top. 

He had barely ripped it from the shelf when Hastur violently collided into him, knocking him down and into the back room. He pinned him, placing his long, spindly fingers around Crowley’s neck. He didn’t need to breathe, but the pain was intense. He could feel his larynx being crushed, popping and crunching as he struggled against Hastur’s grip.

Crowley snapped his wings back, tossing himself upright and Hastur off of him. Hastur was just as much of a snake though, hurtling back toward Crowley, fire forming in his hands.

Disregarding the consequences, Crowley grabbed the large vial residing behind where the King James Bible had been.

He spun around, winding up hard and smashing it against Hastur’s face. The spray splashed Crowley in tiny droplets, and he yelped, sliding down to his knees as it burrowed into his skin like acid.

Hastur, however, got the brunt of it. The demon released an otherworldly shriek, his flesh peeling away as it instantly burned, his muscles and bones liquefying into a puddle on the floor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) He was completely unbothered by Crowley not helping. In fact, he would have been more shocked if he had.  
> 2) It read more as I’m-bloody-terrified-but-could-you-make-it-look-like-I’m-not-in-front-of-my-angel. Please and thank you.  
> 3) If Indiana Jones enjoyed Tartan sweaters, never leaving the university, and lunching with the enemy.


	7. Chapter 7

“Fuck, _fuck, FUCK!”_ Crowley screamed, doubling over next to the primordial soup that used to be Hastur. Crowley’s left hand had been thoroughly doused with holy water when he’d smashed the vial against Hastur’s head, and he could now hear it eating through the muscles and bones in his hand. It wouldn’t stop. It would keep burning through until it came out the other side of his hand.

He growled in pain, stumbling hard and slamming into Aziraphale’s countertop to grab a dish towel. He shakily wrapped it around his mangled hand, mostly to hide it from himself.

As he went to hurry into the front room, he became nauseatingly dizzy, collapsing back to the floor with a crash and heavy breath.

“Az—” he tried, but gagged, feeling his throat burning with protest. He coughed, a spray of blood following.

He growled in frustration, pushing back to his weak legs, his whole body still reeling from the effects of breaking out of the circle.

His heart plummeted as he stepped over Hastur and entered the front room, finding Aziraphale lying motionless on the floor like a downed dove, his snow white wing very obviously bent the wrong way. 

“Aziraphale...” Crowley grumbled, his voice still struggling. He collapsed to his knees next to the angel, laying his good hand on his shoulder.

Aziraphale stirred, groaning at first, followed by a pitiful cry of pain.

“You hav— you have to heal yourself. Now,” Crowley demanded, watching as Aziraphale attempted to sit up, yelping as his broken wing followed him, and obviously causing a shock of pain.

“C— can’t. Not allowed. Part of my a— agreement,” he stuttered, pushing himself to a sitting position. He was covered in blood, the holes in his back where Hastur had anchored him to the floor of particular concern. 

“ _Goddamnit, Aziraphale,_ ” Crowley cursed, reaching for the angel’s wing. As he did, he shifted his left hand, changing the course of the holy water inside it. He cried out, cradling it against his chest and trying to keep it as still as possible.

“Stop. Just stop moving. There’s nothing either of us can do,” Aziraphale admitted, pushing himself on his bum to lean against a bookshelf. His limp wing dragged by his side, and Crowley could tell he was trying not to look at it.

“Underestimated him a bit, didn’t I?” Aziraphale gasped, letting out a heavy exhale through pursed lips.

Crowley stayed kneeling in the middle of the room, too afraid to move his hand. He nodded shakily, coughing again and spraying more blood onto the floor. The realization that he had killed another of his own began to burn into his mind like the water in his hand.

“If I was doomed before...” he whispered.

“I know it’s small consolation now, but I’ll be with you. Every step,” Aziraphale replied quietly. No _‘we’ll figure it out,’_ no _‘I’ll protect you,’_ no _‘I’ll think of something.’_  
Crowley sank forward to all fours, propping with his right and letting his left hang limp. The water changed course again, but this time he gritted his teeth and bared it.

“Give up, Aziraphale, _please, I’m begging you,_ ” he choked. “ _I don’t want to take you down with me. This is hard enough as it is. I’m terrified. But knowing that this will kill you too... that hurts worse. Please just let me go.”_

***

It wasn’t strange for Penelope’s favorite bookshop to be closed at midday on a Wednesday. Mr. Fell was an eccentric man, who pretty much opened his shop whenever the fancy struck him. Penny liked this about him; he didn’t care about proper hours, the customer was almost never right, and the most important thing in his shop was the wares, not the money.

But it was strange for the shop to remain closed for six days straight. He would usually open for at least one every week.

Penny wondered if perhaps she’d intruded a bit too much. Something monumental was going down between the two of them, and she’d just butted right in, her damned curiosity getting the better of her. It always did.

The question of their sexuality crossed her mind, but didn’t seem relevant for two reasons; one—the tall, dark, and angry one definitely wasn’t gay. Not all the way at least. And two—the fear she had felt from him was at almost biblical proportions.1 She’d held hands with people on their deathbeds, and only felt a fraction of what she’d gotten from the Crowley fellow. You didn’t get that kind of fear from mere domestics.

She sighed disappointedly as she tried the handle on the bookshop for the seventh straight day. Her heated breath collected in a cloud at the door, the crisp London snow having hung in the air for the entire week. 

“Bollocks,” she cursed, pulling her down coat tighter and adjusting the _Study of Women and Theology_ so that her bookmark of Anne Hutchinson’s tumultuous page would remain securely wedged.

She hunched against the blowing snow as she began to walk, thinking on the book’s words and how they directly correlated to Penny’s own recent experiences. _Life imitates art,_ she thought with a grin.

Anne Hutchinson had grown up religious, just like Penny. But, upon moving to the colonies with her husband, Anne had become disenchanted with a worldly preaching of book-worship, rather than deed-worship. To Anne Hutchinson, and in fact to Penny, the person need only be Godly to be heavenly. Their practice, and physical worship needn’t be anything more. And it was that belief that had put Anne Hutchinson on trial, into exile, and into poor health. Eventually she was slaughtered in an ironically unrelated massacre by Siwanoy warriors, who spared only a single red-haired child, believing her to hold a fire spirit within her. That girl, later Susanna Cole by marriage, had a number of children, who also had a number of children, some of whom sailed back to London in the 1700s, hoping to escape the heretical reputation of the matriarch Anne Hutchinson.

It more or less followed them wherever they went, through a series of mental episodes, purported possessions, sexual promiscuity, and straight-up atheism. Eventually, with the new world came new thought, and the murmurs of witchcraft died out to leave a scattered and ordinary line of Coles, Hutches, Winthrops, Winships, and Blackthornes. Some of them knew their dark and twisted history, some of them didn’t. But, if you believed in that sort of thing, the fire spirit the Siwanoy of Rhode Island believed lived within Susanna Cole, never left.

“Good morning Ms. Blackthorne.”

“Morning, professor,” Penny replied, shrugging her pack from her shoulder and setting _Women and Theology: The Hushed Voices of History_ on the front row desk of her lecture hall. She thought on the book, and her conversation with the Crowley fellow: wouldn’t say she believed, but wouldn’t say she didn’t, either.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) She obviously wasn’t aware of how true this was.


	8. Chapter 8

Crowley didn’t move for an entire day. He waited, letting the holy water burn excruciatingly through him. The first time he tried to stand, he was reminded of breaking free of the holy circle Aziraphale had placed him in, his bones aching and allowing him to simply sink back to his knees.

When the sun came up on the second day, slicing through the blinds like prison bars, Crowley managed to force himself to his feet. He stumbled to Aziraphale, gently folding his broken wing and bracing him against his shoulder to drag him upright. He was admirably quiet about it, although Crowley knew he must have been feeling unimaginably broken and defeated. 

He had never responded when Crowley told him to give up, a fact that ate away at the demon as he helped the angel walk to the back room, where he lay on the ground, his wing propped in a manner hopefully conducive to healing. It would be faster than a human’s recovery time, but Aziraphale had never dealt with wounds for that long; heaven’s grace had always cared for him. And the fact that he was actually sleeping was monstrously worrisome; he’d only slept one other time in six thousand years. Aziraphale was a delicate soul, but stronger than anyone gave him credit for. And for that reason alone, Crowley knew he would be fine.

On the third day, after only one or two restless, terror-filled hours of sleep, Crowley decided to try to clean up Aziraphale’s beloved book shop while the angel healed. He disposed of Hastur first, the demon’s remains having created a stain on the floor that he knew Aziraphale was _never_ going to stop complaining about. 

He then cleaned his and Aziraphale’s blood from the floors, having to use bleach on the hardwood, which he _also_ knew Aziraphale would disapprove of. But it was better than a blood-stained book shop.

Day four brought a new bought of panic; Crowley was positive that they had to know of Hastur’s failure by now. The fact that even a few seconds had been allowed to pass with Crowley still breathing (metaphorically) after killing his _second_ ally was terrifying. It meant they were either planning something absolutely hellacious, or they were waiting for him to heal first so that it would hurt more. Neither of which were exactly pleasant thoughts.

By day five, Crowley was madly trying to distract himself by picking up, organizing, and dusting every single book which had been knocked down. He made a decision to himself then; that he would ensure Aziraphale’s health... then it was over.

Crowley finally unwound the dish towel from his mangled left hand on the sixth day, finding in his palm—not scars or blood—but completely healed flesh bearing a pitch-black pentagram. A seared-in target marking him for consumption. 

And on day seven, Penelope Blackthorne walked in the front door.


	9. Chapter 9

Crowley groaned, not bothering to move from where he’d braced his elbows on the book shop’s front counter, his forehead resting between them.

“I swear to Satan, I made sure I locked that,” he moaned against the counter, his nerves so fried he couldn’t be bothered to care anymore about these earthly problems.

“It’s an old lock. I picked it,” Penelope said, her voice familiar but unwelcome.

Crowley kept his head bowed as he fished in his shirt pocket for his glasses, sliding them on gracefully as he raised his head to look at her. She crashed to a halt in the middle of the shop, her feet cemented in place as if she’d stepped in super glue.

“Good God,” she mumbled, to which Crowley quickly muttered “not quite.”

“You look like _shit_ ,” she drawled, taking a weary step forward.

“Why thank you, I was just going to say the same to you _as you were leaving_ ,” he snapped, motioning with his aesthetically-gauze-wrapped hand to the door. The muscles in his arm still protested as he did, and he quickly let it drop back to the counter.

Penelope’s face hardened, and she took another step forward.

“I know that I’m kind of an intruder here—“

“You think?”

“ _Ahem._ I know I’m an intruder on... _whatever it is_ you two have going on here. I just... he’s never closed this long, and I wanted to make sure he’s alright. Is he?” she asked softly, sanding down Crowley’s edge with her sweetness.

He sighed, dropping his head again to rest on the counter.

“He’s not feeling well, but he’s fine. He _will be_ fine. I’ll make sure of it. _Please leave_ ,” he growled into the countertop.

“Alright. I just wanted to make sure. Please give him my rega—“

Her abrupt pause made Crowley look up, finding her kneeling to pick up something from the floor—a pure white feather, just barely peeking out from beneath the rug.1

“Penelope, don’t!” Crowley yelped, hurtling himself around the counter and yelping at the pain it caused.

But her fingertips had already closed around it. She gasped, tears flowing down her cheeks, and a smile of pure joy spreading her lips. 

“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph...” she breathed, standing slowly—the feather still clutched in her hand like a mother’s on a child’s. She shook like a leaf, but it wasn’t in fear; it was a flooding of light she’d been blind to since birth. She turned, her demeanor changing as she found Crowley standing just behind her. 

Ancient dread flashed across her features, and she took a large step back from him.

“But that means... _you’re..._ ” she mumbled, her chin quivering slightly.

“It means nothing,” he grumbled, turning from her and limping back to the counter to lean on it, afraid he might fall if he didn’t.2

“Did you... _what did you do to him?!”_ Penny choked, holding the feather against her heart.

Crowley hissed in annoyance, whipping to look at her. “I didn’t do anything to him, I would never hurt him.”

He couldn’t help the wince that split his features as he spun, and he stilled, trying to remind himself to stop doing that. Penny stared at him for a long time before taking a metaphorically monumental step forward. She clutched the feather to her heart for strength, reaching up to his face with her free hand. He pulled back, but couldn’t muster the motivation to move away. 

With a trembling hand, she removed his glasses.

She stared at him like someone who had never seen stars; her eyes both terrified and filled with wonder. 

_“So beautiful...”_ she whispered, staring into his bright yellow eyes.

“I think that’s a first,” he mused, raising his eyebrows. 

She didn’t speak, instead dropping his glasses to the floor and reaching up to lay a hand on his cheek. She gasped, another tear falling down her nose.

“You... you really wouldn’t hurt him. You... _you love him._ How is that possible?” she asked, boring into his unbridled eyes like a freight train.

“Wouldn’t say that too loud if I were you,” he whispered, reaching up and gently removing her hand. “I’m not supposed to.”

Penny’s conflicting emotions molded her face like play-dough; first confused, then saddened, then pitying.

“Can I help you?” she asked, and Crowley couldn’t help but smile at the resiliency of the girl. This non-believer had just been viscerally made into a believer, then come face-to-face with a demon. And upon learning that this particular demon was struggling, she... wanted to help. 

“No one can help me now,” he said, turning with a pained whimper to lean his back against the counter. “But thanks for the offer.”

A thought struck him then, and he looked back down at her.

“Actually there is something you can do.”

He fished in the pocket of his pants, pulling out a keychain with nothing but a Bentley key and a ‘speed demon’ key ring that he’d laughed at for a solid week when he’d acquired it in 1963.

He raised his arm with an airy “ow,” and dropped them on the counter.

“Make sure he gets those when he wakes up. And... watch after him for me. He’s rather attached to me,” he said, his voice cracking at what he was about to do to his friend.

“Why, where are you going?” she asked hurriedly as he pushed away from the counter. She grabbed his left hand to stop him from walking away from her, crying out at the same time he did. He yanked his hand back, waving it back and forth to stop the sting as she stared at the bandages covering the branded pentagram on his palm.

“Like I said,” he whispered, looking down as the symbol began to burn through the gauze. “No one can help me. Please just watch after the angel. His name is Aziraphale.”

With that, he pushed past her, gritting through the pain to strut from the shop’s front door with all the pomp of a man getting back on a horse that he’s already fallen from thrice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) While a clairvoyant could touch the vessel of an angel or demon without getting anything but emotion, an angel’s feather is different. It is pure ethereal grace; a thousand strands of innocence, love, and virtue spun together like weightless silk. If she touched it, she would know exactly what he was.  
> 2) Pun unintended.


	10. Chapter 10

“What sort of bloody organization is this?!” Penny moaned to herself, wildly scanning through the walls of books in the empty shop. Normally she just told Mr. Fell—Aziraphale, apparently—what she felt like reading, and he brought her the perfect selection, every time. “Are they sorted by minor character’s _third cousin?_ ”

She yanked every book out that looked like it may have been about witchcraft, eventually shoving them all back in with the gusto of a fisherman catching small fries.

“Bloody hell,” she cursed, blowing her falling hairs out of her face and turning to look at the back room.

_“There’s an angel back there,”_ she said to herself, unsure whether she was clarifying or slapping herself in the face with it. “Well… at the very least, he’ll know what I’m looking for,” she breathed, walking as if on eggshells through the door-less frame leading to the back.

When she was five, Penny had watched a mother cat return to a burning building numerous times, her fur burning away as she reappeared six, seven, eight times to bring her kittens to safety. When she was ten, she saw her first shooting star, and made a wasted wish about princesses or ponies or some shit. When she was nineteen, she fell in love for the first time.

All of this wonder added up to only a fraction of the sensation she felt upon laying eyes on a man she’d known for years, his nearly fifteen-foot wingspan spread out on the floor before her.

She reminded herself to breathe as she leaned forward, finding him asleep.

_Angels sleep?!_ she thought with bewilderment.

She approached, holding her breath as she stepped over one of his wings to kneel next to his head. She cleared her throat, taking a moment to ask herself if she was awake. She pinched her arm hard, yelping as she did to make sure.

“A—Aziraphale?” she whispered, laying a hand on his shoulder.

He stirred, groaning for a moment before slowly blinking his eyes open. They quickly went from sleepy slits to golf balls as he found Penny leaning over him.

“Oh, dear!” he exclaimed, rocketing upright. His wings disappeared into thin air, like dropping a Kleenex into the Thames, and a pitiful wince split his features.

He stood quickly, wringing his hands nervously.

“It’s fine. I already knew,” she said, following him to stand.

“Oh, dear. Ohhhhh dear,” he said, rubbing his temples.

“Sir… _Aziraphale_ —perhaps you could worry about the mortal implications of my knowing about you later, I…”

“How do you know my name?” he asked, his head tilting like the world’s more adorable puppy.

“The other one told me,” she said, unable to call him ‘the demon,’ but finding his name too… human. “That’s what I’m trying to…”

Aziraphale looked about wildly, leaning to peek into the front of the shop. “Where is he?!” he exclaimed, storming into the front and looking around as if he expected him to be hiding beneath the rug or in the vaulted ceiling.

“That’s what I’m trying to tell you, he left,” she hurried.

“WHAT!? How long ago, I have to find him, he… he can’t…” Aziraphale stuttered, worry etching his cherubic features.

“ _HEY!_ Listen to me!” Penny shouted, and the angel finally stopped and looked at her. “I need you to help me find a book.”

“Right now, my dear?! I’m a bit preoccupied at the moment…”

Penny was starting to understand the demon’s attitude. On a spiritual level.

“One that could _help you!”_ she shouted. “It’s an old Russian text about Baba Yaga, the witch. It contains numerous small stories about her. _Do you have one?!”_ she said finally, spacing out the words for emphasis.

It was clear Aziraphale still didn’t quite understand why it was important, but his face suddenly twisted into the old ‘I’m sure I have one… do I?’ face that Penny loved so much.

He hurried about one of the shelves, scanning it with an extended finger and muttering to himself, in several languages.

“Ah! Here we are!” he exclaimed, pulling a discolored book from the shelf: _The Wild Witch of the East, a Collection of Fairy Tales._ “It’s only a translation, I’m afraid, the original Russian texts are quite difficult to come b— ”

“That’s fine,” she snapped, yanking it rather forcefully from the angel’s hand and cracking it open. 

“Did he say anything… when he left?” Aziraphale asked nervously.

Penny found the one she was looking for— _Vasilisa the Brave_ —stuck her finger in, and snapped the book closed around it. 

“Yes, he left those,” she said, jutting a thumb at the pair of keys on the counter. “Said you should have them.”

If the angel’s heart could have dropped out the bottom of his chest and onto the floor, it seemed it would have. He took a slow step to the counter, covering his mouth emotionally with one hand. It… it seemed he may cry.

“Why, what’s wrong?” Penny asked, her heart breaking at the sight.

Aziraphale nodded ‘no,’ picking up the keys and muttering something against his palm.

“I need to go,” the angel said finally, his sorrow suddenly replaced with resolve. He pocketed the keys, turning quickly for the door.

“Wait, no! I can help you, really! Or… I think I can. Please take me with you, _at least let me try…”_

“Certainly not, my dear, _far_ too dangerous,” he argued with a wave of his hand.

“I’m really not asking for permission,” she said with a crooked smile.

Aziraphale paused, smiling at her vivacity. “Have you an automobile?” he asked.1

Penny narrowed her eyes, pointing at the breast pocket he had just slid the keys into. “No, but you do.”

Aziraphale nodded ‘no’ again hurriedly. “It’s not here, it’s…”

His eyes widened again, and he beckoned her to follow him. She gathered up her backpack and still finger-pinched _Baba Yaga_ book, and followed.

“I know where he’s gone,” the angel said, not bothering to close the shop’s door behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) Penny had to pause to give herself a moment to internally laugh at his use of the word ‘automobile.’


	11. Chapter 11

Crowley walked as if in a trance through the building, his fingers numb as he pulled the fire alarm in the lobby. He felt sluggish, deaf, and disoriented; swimming up the stream of people fleeing. He took the lift up alone, the only one going up. The alarms sounded as if they were underwater, the yelling voices too. And as he approached the door to his flat, waving a hand to unlock it, the twisting of the jam fell like a gavel, jolting him back to sensation.

He stood in the doorway for a long time, looking around at what had been his home for a very long time. He cleared his throat, looking around at the brown and dying plants lining every window. He could have sworn a couple of them whipped themselves into shape at the sight of him, sucking every bit of chlorophyll left back into their withered and weak leaves.

“At ease, fellas. Game’s been called,” he mumbled with a sigh, walking to a decorative crescent-moon table by the couch, taking a few cubes from his perpetually cold, perpetually full tray, and dropping them in a crystal glass. He popped the top from his bottle of Macallan 64 year Scotch, pouring it over the cubes and slamming the bottle back down. He sauntered to his magnificent balcony, letting his eyes drink in London. The clock, the palace, the eye, everything he’d become accustomed to.

He drank from the scotch in an insulting gulp, wasting no time in numbing himself as much as possible. He prodded his mind to walk away; stop gawking and get it over with. The more time he wasted, the more time Aziraphale had to catch up to him. And he _desperately_ didn’t want that.

He spun with an aggravated hiss, stopping to refill his glass before heading for the fireplace opposite the couch. His hands began to shake as he stared at the ready-and-waiting fire logs. He inhaled, holding it as he waved a hand, beautiful and deadly flames bursting from their depths. He would need them to burn down first.

He numbly walked to his closet. His clothes were covered in blood and holes from the holy water. No suitable state for the world’s snappiest demon to go out.

_White or black? Irony or fashion? Fashion, always fashion._

Without even thinking about it, his tattered clothing was instantly replaced with a new, sinfully-fitted black button down (the top three buttons left open), and probably-tighter-than-they-need-to-be slacks. The snakeskin Oxfords remained, and he smiled at them as he returned to the fire, finding just enough ashes gathered beneath the steel-lifted logs.

_It’s over. Six thousand years… pales in comparison to what lies ahead of you. Not another moment will pass when you aren’t screaming, not another second spent distantly happy. The company you’ll keep will be executioners and torturers, all of whom hate your specific guts with a fiery passion that will match the flames burning out your eyes. No more lunching at the Ritz, with someone you shouldn’t like (but do), talking about things you shouldn’t talk about. It’s over._

Anger flared up behind his ears, and with an anguished cry, he threw the crystal glass hard into the back of the fireplace, its spray causing a brief inferno. 

He wrangled his dangerously wandering emotions, trying not to let himself panic as he knelt, unrolling the gauze from his hand and tossing it into the flames. He tried to ignore the pentagram as he pushed his fingers beneath the logs and gathered a handful of white-hot ashes against it. The flames did not char his skin, just as he knew they wouldn’t.

He detoured as he stood, using his free hand to grab the bottle of scotch and power through a painful amount of it very quickly. 

“ _Fuck,”_ he breathed, making sure he got to use his favorite word one more time.

His hand shook, spilling ashes as he knelt just in front of the fireplace, using the ashes to uneasily draw the same pentagram onto the floor, inches from the flames and just barely within their light.

It would probably be Beelzebub that finished him off. After all, he was the only one left Crowley had personally offended. Well, that and…

He stood up straight, feeling the mental dam he had created to keep himself from losing it starting to bend and moan. He drank the last of the scotch, in the hopes of creating a back-flow of booze to keep everything in. He breathed in deeply, dodging nostalgic memories like a matador avoiding a particularly angry (and angel-shaped) bull as he brought the bottle down hard against the mantle, keeping only the now-jagged neck in his trembling hand.

The dam broke just as he raised his pentagrammed palm, and he began hyperventilating with pure fear as he dragged the jagged glass straight across the middle of the symbol, splitting it and his skin.

He almost couldn’t speak the words through his labored breaths, so he simply held his clenched fist out over the ashen pentagram for a moment, steeling himself.

He opened his hand, allowing his blood to spill onto the pentagram. “A—abandon hope,” he whispered, his lips quivering like a toddler’s. “All ye who enter here.”

With monumental effort, he turned his back on the flames, his spine tingling as he waited for the buzzing of flies that usually accompanied the prince of Hell.

A general sense of unimaginable dread was his first clue—they hadn’t sent Beelzebub. It was followed by two footsteps… _no_ … they were heavy… _hoof falls. Split ones._

If Crowley could have vomited past the unmanageable terror, he would have.

**“ON YOUR KNEES.”**

Every cell in Crowley’s body responded to the order, his kneecaps hitting the polished stone tiles before he even registered doing it. He swallowed hard, his whole body beginning to tremble with fearful anticipation.

**“YOU THOUGHT I WOULD SEND ANOTHER UNDERLING.”**

Crowley let out a startled whimper as skeletal fingers ran up the back of his neck. They crawled around to his jugular slowly, like bugs, their touch deceptively and terrifyingly light. They stopped then, simply hovering around his neck.

**“YOU THOUGHT YOU WOULD CONTINUE TO ELIMINATE YOUR OWN RANKS AND THAT _I WOULD EVENTUALLY FORGET.”_**

The fingers squeezed gently once in warning, causing a jolt to course down his spine, every muscle in him desperate to flee.

**“SPEAK, TRAITOR.”**

Once again, he had no choice but to obey. The words spilled out, no matter how he tried to stop them.

“Yes,” he said, his voice laughably small and weak. “I thought I could get away with it. I thought that I wouldn’t be worth your time. I thought I could outsmart them—the ones you sent. I thought interest in my retribution would wane over time.”

**“MMMMMM.”** The amusement in the growl was spine-chilling.

The fingers around his neck withdrew, dragging up his flesh and into his hair, slowly grabbing a handful. Crowley couldn’t help the pitiful sound he made, his mind telling him that, at any second, the deceptively gentle hands were going to puncture out his eyes, tear him in half, burn his skin away. And then, after he had discorporated… then the real pain would begin.

**“SHOW ME YOUR WINGS, TRAITOR.”**

Again, he could not disobey. He tried to speak as they unfolded, knowing they were probably about to be ripped off… slowly. One nerve at a time.

“Please… let me expl…” he began at a pitched whisper.

**“YOU WILL SPEAK WHEN I ALLOW YOU TO.”**

Crowley snapped his lips shut with an apologetic nod, jerking as he felt sharp fingers against his right wing.

**“YOU WERE ONE OF MY BEST, CROWLEY.”**

Now there was one hand grasping the joint of each wing.

**“SUCH BEAUTY, SUCH TALENT. WASTED ON A DEMON THAT SHOWS RESTRAINT. A DEMON WITH RIGHTEOUS WEAKNESSES. A DEMON THAT RELISHES THE COMPANY OF _AN ANGEL.”_**

The hands began to squeeze, prompting an impulsive yelp from Crowley. He felt the presence lean in, fiery lips hovering right next to his ear. A long tongue ran up the flesh of his neck, making a satiated sound before speaking.

**“NOW YOU MAY SPEAK. EXPLAIN YOURSELF.”**


	12. Chapter 12

“Why don’t you just fly there? I’ll catch up,” Penny said as she jogged behind the angel through the streets of London.

“Two very good reasons, my dear,” he huffed as he ran. “One, I wouldn’t be a very good angel if I just sprouted in front of God and everyone, pardon the euphemism, and took off, would I?”

Penny smiled, trying to hold the book still as she ran and read.

“Two; a very recently broken wing that I doubt could hold me yet.” 

“Oh,” Penny gasped, her heart torn between sorrow at an angel’s broken wing and shock that it could even happen.

“So why did you need that book?” Aziraphale asked hurriedly. “You said you thought it could help?”

“I do,” she said, turning through the pages of Vasilisa’s youth and the gifting of the enchanted doll, disregarding them.

“My mother read all kinds of stories to me when she joined the Wiccans..”

The angel stopped dead in his tracks, and Penny let out an ‘oof’ as she collided with the back of him, the book smooshing into her chest and bending the pages.

“Bloody Hell...”

“You’re a witch?!” Aziraphale asked as he faced her.

“Of course,” she replied, smoothing out the crumpled pages. “You didn’t know that?”

“I suppose I just thought you were... touched, gifted. Is that how you came by the clairvoyance?” he asked.

“Not really. Always been able to do that. Shouldn’t we keep moving?” Penny asked hurriedly, motioning ahead.

“Right, yes,” Aziraphale replied, somewhat flustered.

“Anyway, my mother didn’t want me to be afraid of my past, afraid of the reputation of witches, specifically in my family. She was a fantastic woman; wanted me to understand every option I had in life, be unafraid of all of them, and choose the one I liked best. She taught me religion, even though she stepped away from it later in life. Wanted me to know. But she read me everything; the Bible, the Quran, the Satanic Scriptures...”

“Dear lord,” Aziraphale huffed under his breath.

“And she read me fairy tales, cuz she believed that often the metaphors in them were more meaningful than actual moral guidance, like the Bible.”

“Interesting. Call me blasphemous, but I’ve often agreed.”

“Really?!” Penny asked, having expected him to be offended.

The angel did not continue or elaborate, so Penny continued.

“Anyway, this one was one of my favorites. And I later discovered that not only was the story _about_ a witch, it contained the seeds for actual practices, spells.”

Aziraphale turned sharply toward uptown, and Penny followed, turning a page.

“I’m sure you’ve read it, but the gist is this; Vasilisa is tasked by her evil stepmother to fetch fire from the witch in the woods, Baba Yaga. On her journey there, with nothing for company but an enchanted doll given to her by her late mother, she is escorted by three kind strangers; a white rider, a red rider, and a black rider.

“Vasilisa is then enslaved by Baba Yaga, who forces her to perform impossible tasks in order to break the girl; like separating thousands of rotten kernels of corn from good ones in a single night.

“The girl is miraculously able to complete the tasks given to her by Baba Yaga, who grows aggravated by Vasilisa’s unfailing ability. She questions Vasilisa on how she is able to complete the impossible tasks.

“Vasilisa tells Baba Yaga that her blessed doll, given to her by her mother, protected and guided her, and aided her in her tasks.”

Aziraphale led Penny beneath a car park attached to some high-end flats, jogging through a line of quite expensive-looking cars. Penny couldn’t help but look around for a moment.

She let out a long, catcalling whistle as she paused in front of a magnificent beast of a Bentley.

_“Holy shit,”_ she gasped, her eyes unashamedly following the perfect curves on it as if the car were a stripper, working _very_ hard for her money.

“Never particularly cared for that saying,” Aziraphale mused, without having turned to see what she was gaping at. “At its core, it’s oxymoronic...”

“This is his, isn’t it?” Penny asked, ignoring the angel’s tangent. 

He turned, letting out a little ‘ah.’

“Yes. Subtle, isn’t he?” he said with a bittersweet smile.

“Wow... “ she mouthed, beckoning him to keep going. He turned, heading for a lift in a dark rear corner of the car park.

“Where was I? Oh yes, Baba Yaga...”

The lift gave off a little _ding_ as it arrived, and Aziraphale and Penny hurried inside.

“Baba Yaga, obviously the indecent kind of witch, didn’t want anything ‘blessed’ within her house, fearing the doll could negate her powers of darkness. She cast the girl out, who returned home, yada yada...”

Penny paused to take a large breath between enthusiastic sentences.

“When I was a child, I thought—as I was meant to, I’m sure—that the doll blessed with her mother’s love was the thing protecting and aiding Vasilisa. But I’ve been studying it for years, and... only recently, when I touched the demon...”

“Crowley...” Aziraphale said as the lift came to a stop on the ninth floor.

“Crowley, right, when I felt...”

_“Oh no...”_ Aziraphale gasped, and Penny looked up from the book to the hallway outside the lift.

An otherworldly darkness plagued the hall before them, despite the multiple light fixtures overhead. Penny could feel something about it; like she was touching someone very, very evil but... she wasn’t. The door at the end of the hallway sat haphazardly open, an even more pressing darkness lying beyond. And blowing from the doors on a very warm breeze were dozens of beautiful pitch-black feathers.

“Oh, no... _no, no, no...”_ Aziraphale whimpered, turning to face Penny as tears formed in his eyes.

“We’re too late, my dear. He’s... he’s already here. You can’t come in; you can’t even lay eyes on him...”

“Who, Crowley? I already have, plenty, haven’t I?” Penny asked in confusion.

Aziraphale nodded ‘no’ manically. “No, sweetheart. His boss.”

Penny’s heart hit the floor. “Oh... you mean...”

“Yes. I’m sorry, I know you wanted to help, but I must protect your soul. Please stay here. _Please.”_ Aziraphale begged, grabbing her forcefully by both arms.

“But... I can...” she squeaked.

“No. You can’t,” he stated, turning and exiting the lift briskly, his long tan overcoat billowing against the warm breeze.


	13. Chapter 13

Aziraphale mustered as much heavenly courage as he could as he walked away from the girl. It wasn’t the devil that worried him, so much as what he done. 

“Don’t be gone, _please don’t be gone,”_ he whispered to himself dejectedly, preparing for the worst but hoping for the best.

The angel’s breath caught in his throat as he stepped through the threshold of Crowley’s flat, the ancient beast standing just to his right, part of him still engulfed in the flames roaring from Crowley’s fireplace. 

Relief flooded Aziraphale as he found Crowley still very much on earth, but the relief was quickly stamped out as he realized the state he was in.

He was on his knees in front of his master, facing away from him. The devil’s long, spiked fingers were all impaling Crowley’s wings, keeping them pinned back at an unnatural and clearly agonizing angle. There seemed to be dozens of puncture wounds all over his body, allowing a massive amount of bright red blood to pool on the tiles at his knees.

Aziraphale steeled himself, looking up at the black pits glowing high above Crowley’s head. 

“Lucifer,” Aziraphale greeted in a deadpan, holding back as much of his dread as possible.

**“AH, AZIRAPHALE. JUST THE ONE I WAS HOPING TO SEE.”**

“Aziraphale, please leave,” Crowley begged, his voice heartbreakingly small.

**“DID I GIVE YOU PERMISSION TO SPEAK?”**

With that, the devil twisted his hands, dragging out the punctures in Crowley’s wings. He tried not to scream, keeping his teeth bared tight. Tears fell down his cheeks, and he turned his head obediently toward the floor.

Aziraphale’s heart felt like it might burst with pity, a bit of rage hiding behind it. He pushed all of them away, knowing none of it would help him.

**“I SUPPOSE I ALSO HAVE YOU TO THANK FOR CROWLEY’S BETRAYAL. IT’S NOT ALL BAD, THOUGH. IF IT WEREN’T FOR THE STUNT THE TWO OF YOU PULLED, I WOULDN’T BE ENJOYING THIS _DELICIOUS_ VENGEANCE.” **

He suddenly yanked himself free of Crowley, who bravely stayed upright, despite obviously horrendous pain. Aziraphale knew it was just an effort by the devil to stir wrath in him, but the problem was—it was almost working.

“You needn’t torture him just to spite me. If you’ve words for me, you need only speak them,” Aziraphale said, his eyes flitting between Lucifer and Crowley.

**“OH BUT I _DOOO._ YOU SEE, THE TWO OF YOU ONLY CONSIDERED YOURSELVES WHEN YOU DECIDED TO UNDERMINE EVERYTHING OUR COSMIC POWERS WORKED SO HARD FOR. AND I DON’T APPRECIATE BEING IGNORED.” **

He took a step away from the fire, snapping a finger.

**“STAND UP, CROWLEY.”**

Crowley tried, but his legs gave out, sending him to the floor in a splash of his own blood. Lucifer growled, the sound making the entire building shudder.

**“FAIL AGAIN AND I WILL REMOVE YOUR LEGS.”**

Crowley bared his teeth, shoving himself to his feet with a grimace. His whole body shook, very much resembling a man propped up by toothpicks. Aziraphale tried not to dwell on how worryingly wounded he was.

Lucifer smiled, the sight sending a horrified chill down Aziraphale’s spine. He held up his monstrous hands, procuring an oil-slicked blade from thin air. He handed it to Crowley with an even wider crocodile grin.

**“KILL THE ANGEL.”**


	14. Chapter 14

Aziraphale could tell Crowley was resisting the order, and judging by his expression, it was costing him dearly.

Crowley’s eyes flitted past Aziraphale as he walked forward, lifting the blade. Aziraphale knew what he was suggesting. Behind him, behind a first draft Mona Lisa, behind a locked safe... was a new stash of holy water. Aziraphale himself had supplied him with it, after he had used his previous bit on Ligur.

But even if he knew the combination, there was no way he could get into it before Lucifer stopped him.1

“Aziraphale...” Crowley begged desperately, his hand shaking on the hilt of the oily blade. “Please. _Mercy.”_

Lucifer roared at Crowley’s display of restraint, and Crowley seized up, unable to fight it any longer.

Aziraphale’s mind raced— _what to do? Killing him would be mercy, but... he couldn’t. He wouldn’t. He wouldn’t be the death of his closest friend. And yet... letting him continue to suffer at Lucifer’s hands would be cruel. The holy water..._

“Pardon me?”

Aziraphale froze, turning to see Penelope Blackthorne standing in the doorway of Crowley’s flat, her eyes shut tight. 

**“STOP.”**

Crowley paused where he stood, the only sign that he hadn’t turned to stone being a monstrous trembling and the steady flow of blood.

“Penelope, leave this place at once!” Aziraphale hissed, wondering how she was standing in the devil’s presence so calmly.

“No-can-do, angel,” she said with such attitude, Aziraphale wondered if Crowley was speaking through her. “You see, I didn’t get to finish my story.”

Aziraphale slapped a hand to his face, knowing she was getting at something but disbelieving that she was risking her immortal soul to do it.

Lucifer watched her with hungry eyes, slowly beginning to slink toward her.

“Vasilisa’s doll had nothing to do with her abilities or her protection. You see she unknowingly made a deal with a trinity. Three strangers—white, red, and black...”

Lucifer stood before her, his foot falls shaking the floor. She, however, paid them no mind.

“White...”

She procured a snow white feather.

“Red, a fire spirit residing only in witches...”

Aziraphale began to understand.

“And black.”

She procured a pitch black feather in her other hand.

“Without even knowing, Vasilisa the brave had cast a powerful spell binding a traveler of her choice in servitude. With it, she, and in fact her entire family, was granted luck, longevity, and life. It was an impossible spell, for it required the consent of the witch’s trinity. White... red... and black.”

Aziraphale’s heart nearly leapt from his throat.

“I consent,” he said quickly.

“As do I,” Crowley yelped.

“I consent,” Penny said with the world’s largest helping of sass.

The feathers caught fire in her hands, burning quickly and falling as ash at her feet.

Lucifer began a low growl right in her face, her hair beginning to burn at the ends.

“Sod off, Satan,” she spat, actually leaning forward, eyes still shut tight. “This demon belongs to me now. Crowley, drop the blade.”

The clang of metal hitting tile resounded like a gavel, and the silence that followed was earth-shattering.

**“YOU THINK YOUR WITCH’S TRICKS CAN OVERPOWER THE DEVIL?!”**

“Of course not,” Penny said, brushing a hand over the ends of her hair to halt the singeing. “But rules are rules, and I’m following yours. You bestowed the power unto the witches of earth, trading power for souls. You’ve just been promised mine, in return for the power I requested.”

“Oh, Penelope...” Aziraphale whined, the cost becoming clear. She ignored him and trudged on.

“Feel free to deny it to me, but then the pact is broken. Millions of witches’ souls, no longer damned to you because you broke your own rules. So if this... one... measly... demon—no offense Crowley—is worth losing all those souls... then take him back, I suppose.”

Lucifer laughed, leaning in threateningly close, brushing her hair back and running a finger over her throat. 

**“BUT YOU ARE A MERE MORTAL. ALL YOU’VE DONE IS DELAY THE INEVITABLE.”**

“Not necessarily,” Penny replied with a smile. “You see, I’ve bound him to my blood, my spirit, if you will. Not my body. It’s a very particular spirit, one that hasn’t been extinguished for generations. The Siwanoy tribe discovered it in a young girl centuries ago, and recognized its strength. And the women in my family have always been a bit lusty, so I don’t see us failing to procreate any time soon.”

Lucifer growled, grasping her throat. She seemed unfazed, if a little triumphant.

“Go ahead, kill me,” she whispered. “I have sisters. They have daughters. The bond will transfer every time you take one of us. I suppose you could exterminate my entire family, but something tells me the guys upstairs might have some qualms with that much meddling.”

“Yes, we very much would,” Aziraphale said confidently. Heaven may not have helped him with Crowley, but they would always defend the souls of humans.

“So, I guess...” Penelope began, the shittiest of shit-eating grins spreading her lips. “Check mate?”

Lucifer growled, followed by a window-rattling laugh, releasing her and stepping back. He turned, leaning down just centimeters from Crowley, who held his breath nervously.

**“SHE’S RIGHT, DEAR CROWLEY. YOU ARE NOT WORTH MILLIONS OF SOULS. BUT YOU WILL RETURN TO ME, MARK MY WORDS. IT MAY NOT BE TODAY. IT MAY NOT BE FOR A THOUSAND YEARS. BUT YOU ARE MINE, NOW AND ALWAYS. YOU CAN KEEP THAT, TO REMIND YOU.”**

He motioned to the pentagram burned into Crowley’s palm, then turned, stomping down and into the fire. It roared explosively before fizzling with finality.

“Oh, Penelope, how could you?” Aziraphale gasped when it was clear Lucifer had gone, wiping his brow as he came to terms with having watched a human surrender her soul.

“It’s fine, he already had it,” she said, opening her eyes and lunging forward just in time to catch Crowley as he collapsed. 

“Alright?” she asked as he coughed blood, his whole body still shivering. He nodded ‘no’ weakly as Penny eased him to his knees, his wings limp, shredded, and bloody at his back.

“Why,” he choked, shaking his head against obvious pain. “Why would you do that for me?”

“I really did it for me,” she clarified, brushing his falling hair from his face somewhat... affectionately. “The women in my family have been trying to crack the code behind the Witch’s Trinity for generations. It’s why I was reading those books on possession. I thought I would have to be possessed for it to work. But that wasn’t the case. I just needed an _agreement_ from all three parties. Which explains why it’s never been done before. What angel is going to consent to that?”

Both Penny and Crowley looked at Aziraphale, who felt himself flush with embarrassment. 

“Well, I... I was so enraptured in the moment, I thought... well, it was...”

“Don’t hurt yourself, angel,” Crowley chided with a pained smile.

“He’s right. You’ve done nothing unrighteous,” Penny said, resting a hand on Aziraphale’s shoulder comfortingly. “This was my choice, not yours. I was going to try it, with or without you. All you did was ensure I succeeded.”

“Lovely,” Aziraphale said, defeated.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) He was almost certain it would be 12-7-29, the date he acquired the Bentley.


	15. Chapter 15

Crowley had been sleeping for two weeks straight when Penny returned, feeling the need to clarify a few things with both the angel... and the demon. Technically the spell meant he was bound to her bloodline in servitude. But the completion of it had given her everything she sought from the spell itself: a long life, and the luck to live it by. And while Crowley hadn’t given her a reason to fear him, she didn’t want him to feel threatened by it. He was going to be stuck with her family for generations, and that had the potential to be very, _very_ bad if they got on his bad side.

“Knock, knock?” she whispered past the unlocked front door of the flat.

The difference from the last time she’d been in the flat was night and day; there was not a spot of blood anywhere, the pentagram on the floor was gone (as were the scattered black feathers), and the jungle of plants was lush and green.

When no one responded, she tiptoed to the left, into the massive master bedroom.

Crowley was still sleeping, lying on his stomach in the massive king bed, his wings mostly healed and spread out flat across the bed. Aziraphale sat on a chair just to the right of the bedside, a portion of Crowley’s wing draped in his lap. Penny grinned at the absurdity of him preening a demon’s wings like some kind of fawning mother goose.

Aziraphale looked over at her bitterly, gently moving Crowley’s wing and standing. He motioned her to follow him from the room, quietly closing the door behind him.

“Still sleeping, eh?” she asked.

He nodded, removing his thin glasses, folding them, and placing them in his vest pocket.

“I honestly can’t believe his injuries didn’t discorporate him,” he sighed, rubbing his eyes.

“Dis...corporate?” she asked.

He nodded. “Our version of death. We’re immortal, so we can’t _die,_ per se. But our bodies can be destroyed, sending us back... where we belong. Then we’re either granted a new earth-bound body, or forced to stay. I wasn’t… I’m not sure, with this new arrangement, where his soul would go if he’d discorporated: if he’d go to you, or… _God knows_ they never would have let him see daylight again if he’d gone to them.”

“Is he okay... you think?” she asked, hoping she wasn’t prying too much. “Is he supposed to sleep this long?”

“Oh, that has nothing to do with it,” Aziraphale said, looking back at the bedroom door. “We’re not supposed to sleep at all. He just enjoys it—sloth and all that. But I suppose... it does help him not to suffer while he heals. So to answer your question... yes, he’ll be alright.”

Penny nodded, trying to keep her million and one questions from bursting through the gates like the running of the bulls.

“Did you need something, my dear?” the angel asked, pulling his glasses back out of his pocket and using the bottom of his khaki colored vest to clean them meticulously.

“Oh, er...” she pushed her hair behind her ears. “I just... wanted to talk... to both of you, about... what this means...”

Aziraphale sighed dejectedly, placing his now spotless glasses back in his pocket. 

“You know, Penny... it’s not too late to take it back. To reclaim your immortal soul. You’ve no idea what you’ve done to yourself,” he said quietly. 

“But... that would mean giving him back to Satan...” she said with an air of shock.

“I know that. Much as it breaks my heart, he made his choice. Six thousand years ago. My first responsibility as an angel is to _you,_ my dear. Please don’t make this decision because you pity him. Do what your heart, your _soul_ tells you is right.”

Penny thought for a moment. “With all due respect... I’m still not even sure I believe.”

Aziraphale let out a disappointed huff, rolling his eyes.

“You _must_ be joking. You _saw him standing ri—”_

“Naaaaah, I didn’t _see_ anything,” she said with a crooked smile. “I had my eyes closed.”

Aziraphale obviously didn’t find it funny. He groaned in frustration, throwing his hands up and turning away from her.

“Az... can I call you that? I know you’re worried about me. And I appreciate it, really I do. But my family—a family of good, often religious witches—has been searching for this spell for generations. It gives us a purpose, a reason for being here. And grants us the safety and longevity to continue _doing good._ And I believe, as a distant relative of mine once did, that if I’m doing good, no matter how I’m going about it... then maybe... my soul will be fine.”

The angel paused, looking back at her with hope rising in his brilliantly blue eyes.

“What the hell are you two still doing in my flat?”

Penny turned, color coming to her face as she found Crowley... magnificently shirtless, a pair of black slacks riding sinfully low on his thin hips. He yawned, stretching both his arms and his wings out, which took Penny’s breath away.

_“Thank you, Aziraphale, for looking after me and scrubbing my blood off the floor,”_ Aziraphale mused in a mocking tone. “And do you think you could have some decency? Put your clothes on.”

“I’m in my home, perhaps _you_ should take _your_ clothes off,” Crowley snapped, his wings disappearing from view and leaving... just a plain old adonis.

“Okay,” Penny muttered under her breath.

Both of them looked at her.

“What?” 

_“What?!”_

“Nothing, I didn’t say anything. Listen, Crowley... erm... I need to... talk to you. About... all of this,” she stuttered, not looking at either of them.

The smirk disappeared from Crowley’s features, replaced by slightly anger-tinted reservation.

“Yeh, this is gonna require clothing. Be right back,” he quipped, spinning to return to his bedroom.

He swerved as he did, letting out a surprised gasp and slamming into the doorframe, one hand clutching his abdomen.

Aziraphale rocketed forward, but Crowley waved him off with flustered disregard.

“Fine, yeah, good. I’m fine,” he said quickly, hurrying from view.

Penny gave Aziraphale the ‘he’s definitely _not’_ look, which was returned to her tenfold.

Crowley returned moments later, buttoning up another wonderfully fitted maroon dress shirt, and Penny bit her cheek to make the thoughts go away.

“Look... I want to make sure you understand... I’m not going to abuse this. The perks of the spell don’t require your assistance, or even your presence, and I want you to know that your... servitude... will not be abused,” she hurried, the words spilling out like vomit.

Crowley stared at her, his features flat and emotionless.

“Yeah. Nice try. I’ve spent six thousand years on this earth. Humans always want something. ‘S what made my job so eas—“

“I’m trying to tell you that—” she tried to argue, but he continued to talk over her as he walked to his kitchen. 

“You’ll want something. Or someone down the line will. And I’ll have no choice—”

“Crowley, just—“

“Suppose that’s the price I pay for delaying my damnation.” He yanked a jar of tea bags from a cupboard, waving a hand at a silver kettle, which immediately whistled. “Play pet demon for a few thousand years, then get what’s comin—”

“Crowley, _hush!”_ Penny snapped.

Crowley slammed a fist down on the counter in anger, his lips closing against his will. The cup and spoon he’d retrieved for his tea jumped with the sudden impact of his fist.

A chill ran down Penny’s spine.

“Oh, God, I’m sorry. You can speak. I’m sorry. Is that going to happen whenever I tell you what to do?” she asked hurriedly.

Crowley kept his clenched fists propped on the counter as he nodded ‘yes’ almost indiscernibly.

“Even if I’m joking?!” she gasped.

He nodded ‘yes’ again dejectedly, grabbing a tea bag and tossing it in his cup.

“I have no free will. Not when it comes to my superiors, which you are now. If you phrase it as a command, I have to obey,” he growled, pausing to lean on the counter, his body language dripping with fury.

Penny looked to Aziraphale with the kind of hesitation a teenager gives their parents before doing something very frowned upon.

She hurried to Crowley’s side, resting a hand on his shoulder and leaning in indecently close. At first he didn’t look at her.

“I’m sorry. I won’t ever do it again,” she whispered. “I didn’t do this because I wanted a slave. I wanted the abilities, but I’d be lying if I said saving you wasn’t part of my motivation. I’ll make sure everything is phrased as a request. I’ll never demand anything from you again, alright?”

His breathing evened out, his anger subsiding slowly. He turned only his head to look at her, his snake slit eyes mere inches from hers, practically glowing in the unlit corner of the kitchen.

“Well...” he said, a mischievous slant to his lips. “I wouldn’t say _never.”_

Penny grinned, unable to stop herself from flinging his charm back at him.

“Yeah?” she asked, her eyes moving to his lips knowingly. “How will I know when it’s okay?”

A long, slit tongue flicked out of his lips, a little hiss following. Penny felt herself shiver, and definitely not from cold. “I think you’ll figure it out,” he hummed.

“A- _hem!”_ Aziraphale deliberately and loudly cleared his throat.

Penney stepped away from Crowley, confident that, for now, they had reached an understanding.

“Sorry,” Penny mouthed to Aziraphale, who pursed his lips in judgement. Something obviously jogged his memory, however, because he let out a little ‘oh!’ as he fished in his overcoat pocket, pulling the pair of keys from its depth and jangling them in the air.

“I believe these belong to you,” he said, genuinely happily.

Crowley smiled wide, and Penelope realized two things; one, she’d never seen him smile, and it was quite charming/dangerous, and two... she was watching a _demon... smile._

She launched between them as Crowley held out his hand, snatching the keys from Aziraphale. She turned, preparing a bout of witty banter, but found Crowley’s smile gone, his eyes locked on his own palm.

His left palm, where a permanent pentagram was seared into his skin.

Penny’s heart ached for him, so she stepped forward, lightly dropping the keys on top of the symbol.

“Fancy a drive?” she asked, trying to pry his attention and failing at getting it. “She’s a beautiful car.”

He grinned halfheartedly, looking up at her distractedly. “That she is.”

“Can you drive her from the back seat?” Penny whispered, her heart slamming against her chest in both fear and... _definitely not fear._

Crowley’s brows rose. “I could, but why would I want to do tha—”

She trailed a fingernail lightly past his palm, dragging a fingertip over his wrist with practiced accuracy.

“Oh—right. Yeh, er... think I could manage. You have somewhere in mind?” he said, his yellow eyes suddenly analyzing her edges like dinner had just come out.

“Somewhere... an hour or so away. Any direction,” she whispered, moving her thumb back and forth on Crowley’s wrist and surprisingly feeling a rising heartbeat.

Crowley grinned viciously. “An hour, hm? Sure you can handle the ride?”

“Depends. That tongue—you any good with it?”

“Ooooo-kaayyyy,” Aziraphale yelped, turning away from them, his cheeks turning slightly red. “Will you two go on, I can feel myself falling just _listening_ to you.”

Crowley pulled back from Penny, his fingers closing around the keys.

“Ah, in that case, care to join us?” he said wickedly, to which Aziraphale rolled his eyes. 

Crowley tossed the keys back to Penny, shooing her away with a quick “start her up.”

She excitedly pumped a fist in the air, hurrying to the door but pausing to look back.

Crowley had stopped in front of Aziraphale, genuinely holding out a hand.

“Thank you, Aziraphale,” he said, his voice laden with an otherworldly amount of conviction.

Aziraphale smiled, taking Crowley’s hand and shaking it once.

“Don’t know what I’d do down here without you,” the angel said affectionately.

Crowley grinned, raising his sunglasses from his pocket as he pulled his hand back.

“You’d think of something,” he said, all suave and sass as he slid the shades smoothly onto his eyes. “Ritz later?” he asked, sauntering to the door.

“Wouldn’t miss it.”


End file.
